


Penthouse Bloke

by AifasInTheSky



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: (???), (I'll update tags as the fic progresses), (this is a monster of a thing), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multi, Sexual Content, Songfic, also this is technically based on a song so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AifasInTheSky/pseuds/AifasInTheSky
Summary: Mick "Sniper" Mundy is the doorman of the Fortress building. It's not a bad job, not at all, and he takes pride from the professionalism with which he handles it. But there's something--someone--that makes his blood boil every. Time.Spy, the penthouse resident.
Relationships: Demoman/Spy (Team Fortress 2), Engineer/Spy (Team Fortress 2), Heavy/Medic (Team Fortress 2), Heavy/Medic/Spy (Team Fortress 2), Scout's Mother/Spy (Team Fortress 2), Sniper/Spy (Team Fortress 2), Soldier/Zhanna (Team Fortress 2), Zhanna/Soldier/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 67





	1. Meet the Neighbourhood

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! (And sorry for the double notifications rip) Hopefully I'm not digging my grave by writing a new multichaptered fic, but this one's one of my oldest TF2 projects--started working on it right after Something To Rely On, so _old_.
> 
> I'll let you know when something nsfw from other ships that aren't the main one (sniperspy) will appear, but I doubt it'll happen. I planned to write parallel stories as part of a series where that might happen.
> 
> Without further ado: I hope you like it! \o/

Being a doorman is a good job. Challenging work.

People tend to think it’s all about sitting next to the main door of the building and watch the tenants come and go all day.

Well, that is part of the job description. But that’s not all, not at all.

\-----

A good doorman needs to be always available. Mick’s routine in particular starts at eight o’clock every day, at the building’s doors.

“Tav, again?”

“Ae couldn’t find m’ keys,” Tavish DeGroot replies, a burp bursting out of him. Mick’s nose wrinkles in protest to the acrid smell of alcohol.

“It’s the second time this week, mate.” And the seventh this month. “You’ve got to be more mindful.”

“Ae know, Ae know.” The man leans heavily on his shoulder, making him stumble. “Ae’m bloody awful, am ae not? Bloody mess. Nae even able t’ get into me own home. I’m a bloody handful. D’ye think I’m a handful?”

“Of course not, mate,” he lies. He likes Tavish just fine but sometimes he can be a hassle. “Come on, let’s get you in.”

“Thanks, mate.” Tavish lets out a groan. “Aaahh, I’m oot me face.”

Mick struggles to unlock the door with Tavish hanging from his shoulders (“Move off, mate, you’re heavy as lead!” “But Ae’m a handful, ain’t I?”) Finally, they get in. He half carries Tavish to the elevator and his room on the fourth floor, nodding and grunting while he sprouts gibberish.

Sometimes a coherent string of words escapes his mouth.

“… A—an’ then he slams his bloody pint an’— an’ yells: ‘Shut the fuck up, you fucking cyclops!’” Tavish sniffs. “I—I’m nae a bloody one-eyed monster, damnit!” He wipes his eye with his free hand. “If it wasn’t for me mum’s heart I’d have ended him right there and then—bloody fuckwit.”

Mick awkwardly pats his shoulder, trying to be placating, and Tavish sniffs again. “Bloody cyclops…”

At last, they arrive to his apartment. Mick opens the door and Tavish rests his weight on the doorframe. “Well, thanks again, lad—burp—yer the best. Ye won yerself a bottle of me finest scrumpy. Make sure ta pass by the bar at the end of yer shift!” The Scotsman slaps a hand on his shoulder, making him lose his balance. He laughs at him, loud and bright. “See ye later!”

He gets inside and closes the door and Mick sighs. So much for an easy morning.

\-----

A doorman also has to make sure that everyone gets his correspondence. He often signs the packages and keeps them until their recipients arrive.

That means he is usually the first to interact with the mailman.

“Oi, Snipes!”

“I told you not to call me that, you little scoundrel.”

“Oi, who you calling little?”

He ignores the boy and makes a show of reading his magazine.

“So what’s up, man?” Jeremy leans in, resting one elbow on his desk. “How’s it going? Anything happen? Commander Nuts broke the toilet again?”

“Nah.”

“Oh, man, come on, tell me something. Anything. I run on gossip.”

“Don’t you have papers for me to sign or something?”

“Aw, you’re no fun, Snipes.”

He has a moment of peace while Jeremy hands him the paperclip and pen and goes to retrieve the mail. But he knows it won’t last.

Bloody hell, there’s a lot to sign today.

“Anyway, um…” Jeremy has his hands full, but it doesn’t deter him to speak. Sadly. “You seen Miss P. around lately?”

Mick sighs. “For the last time, ya bugger—she only comes once a month!”

“But it could’ve been yesterday. Or even today! What if it’s today? Oh, man! I’m gonna pass by when my shift ends, hang around for a bit—whatcha think?”

“You do it every day, Jeremy,” he mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That’s the spirit!” Jeremy slaps him on the back. He stumbles, annoyed. “I’m gonna finish extra quick to get back here ASAP! See ya later, pally!”

And with that, Jeremy runs out of the building, barely avoiding a utility pole, jumping on his bike and speeding away.

Three minutes later he returns, panting.

“I forgot—huff—my papers…”

He hands them to him and watches him run away again.

“I guess I should enjoy the quiet while it lasts,” he mumbles, grabbing his magazine again. After all, sooner or later, the boy will return.

And _he_ —he shudders—could appear any minute now.

\-----

A doorman needs to know the neighbouring areas very well. He has to be able to give directions to the residents who need them.

“Hello, Slim.”

Mick smiles from his desk to the resident engineer. Dell is one of the people in the building whose company he enjoys the most. He’s nice, polite, respects his space, and doesn’t make crazy demands. Other than the weird, heavy packages he receives twice a month, and the occasional embarrassed request of fixing a pipe issue for him (“Eleven PhD’s and you’d think one of ‘em should help me do the job, dammit…”) Dell doesn’t give him any trouble, and that’s very appreciated, especially in this bloody madhouse.

“Hello, Truckie,” he answers with a nod. It’s kind of an odd hour for him to be here—he usually is working on something at his workshop by this time. “How’s work?”

“I guess it could go better, honestly.” Dell slides a hand over his balding head. “I need a certain component for my last project and mail’s running late. Did Scout bring anything, by chance?”

“Nothing but a headache for me.” Mick chuckles. Dell groans, frustrated. “How about you do something else? To clear your mind off a bit?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was gonna ask…”

“You wound me, Truckie; I thought this was just friendly talk—”

“Come on, Slim,” Dell grumbles while Mick cackles. “You know it’s not like that—”

“Yeah, mate, sorry; I just wanted to mess with ya.” He smiles up at him. “What do you need?”

Dell sighs. “It’s been a while since I last took a walk around, and Solly told me the other day the old cinema closed—something about someone pouring soda on the projector? He was pretty skittish about it, by the way.”

“Oh, yeah.” He remembers that. He’s sure there is more to the story, as a police officer passed by that day mere seconds after Soldier rushed up the stairs, asking for a crazy man with a shovel, soaked in Coke and yelling about communist propaganda. Although the description fit Jane to a T, he shook his head no and sent the tired, wary man off.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to cover for someone here, and it won’t be the last, for sure.

“Well, the thing is: I wanted to watch something—anything, really; movies tend to drag me in. So I was hoping ya’d be able to point me to a rental in the area? I wanna find a movie I can recommend to Rosie on Friday.”

“Of course, mate.” He smiles. “How’s the lass, by the way?”

“Mighty fine, pardner,” Dell says with pride. “She told me she aced her subjects—straight A’s in all her seven classes.”

“Woah, that’s bloody impressive, mate! Congrats for her!”

“I’ll pass ‘em on.” Dell winks. “She’s gonna get her first PhD even sooner than I did—I’m almost jealous!”

Mick knows he doesn’t mean it. He’s full of pride for his daughter and it shows in his posture and his irrepressible grin and his rosy cheeks.

Rosie might have one hell of a temper, and Dell might be a bit biased when it comes to her, but they are one hell of a family. They’re inseparable, even with the physical distance between them; and they can face everything. They _have_ faced everything. And they’ve come victorious, happy and successful, even after Suzie’s illness, and the fortunes spent on meds, and the grief, and the several painful arguments they saw themselves caught on in the aftermath.

They’re some of the best people he knows, and he’s happy for them. They deserve what they have now.

“There’s a rental a few blocks away—go down this street, three blocks, then turn right and walk four more. It’s next to a fancy-looking shoe store—it’s hard to notice it, with all the flashy signs in that area.”

“Thanks, pardner,” Dell replies, still smiling. “Rosie’ll appreciate it, too.”

“Sure she will, mate. Now get out of here, some of us have jobs to do.”

“Hey, look who’s talking about work when he’s sitting there reading the latest National Geographic—”

“Gotta be here just in case, mate; that doesn’t mean I’m going to bore my head off until something happens.”

“Point taken.” Dell smirks. “See ya later, Slim.”

“G’bye, Dell,” he waves at him as he exits the building.

Ah, if everything could go as smoothly…

\-----

He lives by three rules.

Be polite.

Be efficient.

Have a plan… to get rid of everyone you know.

You might think he’s more than a bit loose on the head. But he’s not a psycho, he swears! He just needs to make his limits clear. If he’s learned something in this profession is to be prepared for everything.

Everything.

“Hey, big guy, got some mail today.”

“Ah, good. Been time since Heavy heard of sisters.”

“Misha, should you open it here? We have to go finish the experiment in… ah, exactly six minutes, or it’ll be ruined!”

“ _Doktor_ , this is important too. I promise we will be in time.”

“Ach, fine.”

Heavy opens the care package with care, as always. He gets out a very fluffy sweater, a pair of ushanka-hats and a letter. He hands one of the hats over to his partner exchanging the by now regular “For you,” and “Danke,” and starts reading the letter, a smile on his face. His eyes always shine when he hears from his family.

“Mama says she’s okay,” he comments happily. “Sends regards. Also sisters. Oh!” He searches inside the box and retrieves a pair of furry mittens, and hands them over to Mick. “For you.”

“Oh, thanks, mate!” He smiles and tests them on. They’re a bit big for him, but they’re much appreciated. It’s the thought that counts.

“Yana and Bronislava made them. They say hello. Also say they want to meet…” He deadpans and looks at him straight in the eye. “… Sexy Australian man”

Mick gulps. Heavy’s sisters are precious to him. They’re his babies. He’s very, _very_ protective of them, and he’s sure whoever wants to get their attention is gonna have to go through hell first. That _if_ they get out in one piece.

He’s already thought of four ways to put Heavy down before he murders him when the big man gives a guffaw, slamming his desk with both hands. The reception bell almost falls off.

“Ha, ha, ha! Ahhh, that slaps me on the knee. Did you see tiny man’s face, _Doktor_?”

“Priceless.” Medic grins from behind Heavy’s back, ushanka-hat on. Mick glares at them both, but internally sighs.

“Bloody hell, was that bloody necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Medic states. He then grabs Heavy’s arm and starts dragging him to the elevator. “Come on, we’re going to be late!”

“ _Da_ , _da_ , coming, _Doktor_.”

Heavy puts the sweater, letter and hat back inside the package in a hurry and starts following Medic. But then, before reaching the elevator doors, he stops, and looks at Mick as serious as can be.

“Careful, little man,” he warns. Mick gulps.

They both go, and Mick can breathe again.

\-----

Usually he’s got no problem following his rules.

But sometimes… Some people make it especially difficult.

Yes, he’s talking about _him_.

The Spook.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” the bloody arsehole purrs. _Purrs_. “What are you doing here this lovely evening?”

“I, uhh…” The young man looks distracted by the Spook’s hands, which are currently busy fixing his own gloves. “I came to see Mr. Conagher about a prototype…”

“Oh, the business type then…” he says, a private smirk in his stupid face. “Unfortunately, Mr. Conagher is temporarily unavailable—he has gone out on an emergency errand.”

“O—oh. Should I—”

“Yes, a shame. But he will return in a little while. Meanwhile—” The Spook starts fixing the businessman’s tie; the poor sod gulps, looking down. “—I might have a proposition to make to you, instead.”

“Really? I mean… what would that be?”

“I currently live in this building’s penthouse. Why don’t I show it to you while we… _talk_ the details of it?”

The businessman looks lost in his eyes. Oh, come on—

“I—If there’s no inconvenience…”

“Not at all, _mon ami_ ,” he reassures him, reaching to caress his cheek. God. “Come.”

He can’t believe he’s got to bear this every day. Every. Day. Contrary to what people may think—and _do_ often think—the issue is not the promiscuity: it’s that the Spook is nothing but a snake and a grade-A arsehole. Bedding people is his way to sell his products, to acquire clientele, and it’s so underhanded and unprofessional he feels himself boil every time. He uses his potential clients, they get attached and then he discards them as he seems fit. Wash, rinse and repeat. And he can’t believe how many idiots fall for it.

The door of the elevator won’t open.

“Do not worry, _mon cher_ ,” he reassures his prey. “Mr. Mundy,” he calls him, honey in his voice. It makes him sick, the hypocrisy. “Would you check what the issue might be?”

“Why don’t you use the stairs?” he spits against his will, too pissed to be proper. Hell. “Afraid to wrinkle your stupid suit?”

He hears the businessman protest on the Spook’s favour, but he only can focus on the way the bastard’s smile gets sharper, meaner, more dangerous. “Please, Mr. Mundy,” he says, still as smooth as ever, though Mick knows there’ll be hell to pay for it later. “I wouldn’t expect someone of your… profile to be proper—” Or now. Motherfucker. “—but we are in quite a hurry, you see…”

“I can see it alright,” he mutters, and feels the other seethe as his partner reddens. Bloody hell, he can’t afford to chase off Dell’s client. “Sorry, mate, I’ll check it right now.”

And as he trudges up the stairs to the seventh floor, where he’ll find Pyro playing with the doors again, he curses Spook and his suaveness and talent to entice each and every person in this bloody building.

Except him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To whoever guesses the song: I hope you laugh as much as I do.


	2. Filthy Jarman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper reminisces about the time they met.

It was fitting for them, he supposes, that everything started with a clash. Literally.

That morning, the shipment Medic had been excitedly waiting for arrived in pristine condition. Which was very good, actually, as it contained so many glass jars and hazardous contents that he’d have hated to touch them otherwise—as it was, it still made him somewhat squeamish.

“Sign here,” the delivery man said, not very eager to stay for long. Medic’s deliveries always had that effect on people—Jeremy always went on about how glad he was that those were always delivered by the labs themselves.

He signed distractedly, looking warily at the heavy-looking, piled-up boxes and their “CAUTION – FRAGILE” labels. That was going to be hell to move inside and up to the fifth floor, even with Heavy’s help.

When he turned around, he found himself empty-handed and alone in the footpath, no sight of either the man or his delivery truck. He sighed. Well, time to work it was.

Medic _always_ wanted to be let known exactly the moment his deliveries arrived, so he walked to the bell system and rang him up.

“Is it here?” Medic’s anxious voice answered—it was almost customary at this point.

“Yeah, Doc,” he replied, tipping his old hat down to fight the glare of the sun. “Call Heavy and come here when you can.”

“Fantastic!” Medic proclaimed with a whoop, and the line went flat. Perfect. He just needed to wait, then. Medic demanded that no shipment was moved ever without Heavy’s help—that big was the trust he had in the big guy.

He wasn’t even offended, to be honest—those things were huge.

He walked closer to them. “What do these ones even have, this time?” he muttered, examining them from a short, though prudent, distance.

He didn’t hear the hurried steps that approached him.

“Move!” a voice snarled, and he found himself shoved against the pile of boxes.

“Bugger!” he yelped, feeling the boxes shift under him.

Oh, no.

He tried to move away, to warn the other person, but gravity was faster, and the top box fell and opened in mid-air, scattering its contents all over them. Which were…

Urine samples.

“Mon dieu!” the man yelled in horror, wrinkling his nose at the awful smell.

Mick looked at himself, then at the man, taking notice of the fact that nothing life-threatening had happened to either of them, the man’s suit notwithstanding. He sighed in relief.

“ _You!_ ”

He startled. “Me?”

“Yes, _you_!” The man pointed at him, furious. “How _dare_ you!”

“M-me?” he repeated, incredulous. Did this uptight bugger have the _nerve_ to blame—

“Do you sport any kind of brain damage or did the disgusting bodily emissions get into your skull? How dare you be _happy_ about this?”

“First of all, bugger off; and secondly, it wasn’t even my fault, you daft bugger, I was—”

“—Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, that’s what you were doing, you _imbecile_. I’m having the worst morning imaginable, and that’s only partly because of _this,_ ” he said, mock-gagging (or was it mocking?) “The last thing I need is anyone _standing in my way!_ ”

He simmered. “Standing—? Mate, d’you even know who you’re talking to?”

“I don’t even care, I can already tell you’re a filthy philistine, based on your reaction to be literally covered in _urine_.” He scoffed. “I bet your shower cries for neglect and then dies inside with each visit.”

Mick saw red. “You just destroyed part of my friend’s shipment, you bloody wanker!” he snarled. “The very least you could do is _apologise!_ ”

“The very least _you_ could do is apologise!” the man countered, red-faced. His intense eyes shone with pure hatred.

Mick could relate.

“My samples!”

They both turned towards the voice. Medic, dressed in his work uniform, ran towards them and let out a cry of dismay, kneeling to grab the few bottles that were intact. The piss-covered man groaned in disbelief, covering his eyes, and Medic glowered at him. “I have been waiting three whole _weeks_ for these!”

“What kind of—whatever.” The man looked at himself again, assessing the damage with distaste. “It’s as good time as any to make use of my new installations.” And with that, he headed towards the building.

Mick stopped him, grabbing him by the arm. “Where the hell do ya think you’re going?”

“To my new home,” the man snarled, snatching his arm away as if burned. “Not to brag, and not that it matters to you, but I live in this building’s penthouse.”

“You—” His stomach dropped. What day was it?

“Yes, so without further ado, I’ll look for the doorman. Excuse me,” he said, and marched again inside the building.

Mick just stared behind his pompous arse.

“… When is little man going to tell him that he is doorman?”

He looked up at Heavy, who had somehow arrived in the middle of it. Medic still was kneeling on the footpath, lamenting his samples’ fate.

“… Hopefully never.”

The following ordeal had been the most awkward situation he’d been in since high school, and he was actually glad when the bastard snatched the keys from his hand and the elevator door slammed in his face.

But it didn’t end there.

That night he decided to hang around at Tavish’s bar, drink the awful day away, as they say.

“Gimme something strong,” he mumbled, leaning heavily against the bar.

Tav whistled, searching. “You look awful, mate.” He stopped, leaning over to whisper: “Is it about the piss thing?”

He groaned and looked around, spotting Medic and Heavy playing darts at the opposite wall. “Partly. Did they tell ya about…”

“Our new neighbour? Yeah.” He tsked, serving him something on the rocks. It looked like a rum mix. “Seems like a real piece of work.”

“Don’t tell me,” he said, and took some gulps of the drink.

“Easy, lad, it ain’t water,” Tav warned.

“Heeyy, what’s up, guys?” Jeremy said loudly, entering the bar and heading towards them in his usual cocky way. Something seemed off about him that day, though.

“Hey, Jeremy,” Tav greeted, and started rummaging around. “The usual?”

“Nah,” he said, surprisingly. “No energy drinks this time.”

“What happened, lad?” Jeremy loved the sweet taste of those things, would drink them in any form they came.

“Don’t worry, guys, I’m just… jittery today.” He uncharacteristically mumbled: “Bad morning.”

“Same,” Mick replied, rising his drink. “Met the worst wanker today.”

“Pffft.” Jeremy waved his arms around dramatically. “If you’d met the asshole I dealt today with, then you _would’ve_ met the worst wanker—and I mean it both ways, pally.”

“What’re ya talking about?” Tav asked, handing him his drink.

“My ma’s lover.” Jeremy spat. “He’s an asshole. The worst kind. Ma loves him, and he sleeps around all the time. He practically lived home ‘cuz he worked abroad for a while and he didn’t have where to stay, but now he moved on his own—thank God. I won’t have to see his stupid face in the morning again.”

“Oh?” Mick said, still thinking about that morning. “Mine shoved me into Medic’s delivery, made piss rain over us, then decided it was my fault and demanded me to apologise, calling me a… a ‘filthy philistine’. Bloody uptight wanker.”

“Uggh,” Jeremy mock-gagged. “What a dick. It sounds like a downright asshole.” He seemed to mull over what Mick said again, as he usually does—sometimes it looks like his brain goes faster than him and he has to backtrack. “Wait, you said he said… How was he dressed?”

“Sharpest red suit I’ve seen in my life,” Mick said, recalling what he could aside of the hate igniting between the both of them. “Intense eyes. Hooky nose.”

“Did he sound French? Just asking.”

Tav narrowed his eyes. “Is this going where I think it’s going?”

“Now that ya say so, it’s true, he did.” Mick’s eyes widened. “You don’t say—”

“Oh, my god.” Jeremy guffawed. “Spy got covered in piss! Ahaha!” He wiped a tear of mirth. “My morning’s fixed!”

“Oi, I was pissed on too,” he reminded both Tavish and Jeremy as they laughed nonstop.

“Ahhh… Awesome,” Jeremy said finally, calming down with a shove of Mick’s elbow on his ribs. “But what the hell was he doing at Fortress?”

Mick stiffened.

“Ah, uhh…” Tav said. “You ain’t gonna like it.”

When Jeremy learned that night that the spook lived in the building’s penthouse, his yells could be heard from the Fortress itself. Said man had been drinking a cup of wine at the moment, and had been startled into pouring it onto his clean clothes, for which he was thoroughly annoyed—as he let Mick know at the reception desk the following morning.

It needn't be said that it didn't do wonders for Mick's opinion of him. Especially when he got called "Filthy Jarman."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it all started pretty well. *coughs*
> 
> Poor Jeremy  
> \-----  
> Thank you very much for reading! I hope you like it ♥


	3. Delivery

“The floor is dirty _there_ , bushman.”

“Oh, do shut up,” Mick spits, nevertheless looking at the dirty spot he hasn’t reached yet.

Today, Spy—he still refuses to call him by his name, and Jeremy’s nickname has stuck—apparently decided that the best use he could make of his time is hanging around in the lobby. Which… To be fair, it’s not like he’s making a ruckus, like some of the other tenants are known to do. He’s just sitting in one of the couches next to the door, reading a book. Or at least, pretending to be.

And that’s the issue. He’s there, _observing_ the building’s movements like a bloody creep—and of course, Mick’s too. Every time he lets his guard down, the spook stabs him with his sharp, irritating remarks. He’s abandoned his magazine in order to do something, _anything_ , both to look busy and to release the pent-up energy he’s been accumulating since seven in the morning.

“You know, you could be more efficient if you cleaned by segments.”

“You know, I could be more efficient without _you_ right there,” he says, gripping the broom even tighter. “Remind me why are you even here?”

“I need to familiarize myself with the building,” he says, still looking at his book. “You can’t expect me to just live here and not know the general dynamic of the place.”

To be fair… Yes, he’d thought exactly that. He’d figured that Spy would stay in the penthouse and not be seen for at least days at a time. But here he is, bloody—pissing the hell out of him. That can’t be a part of “familiarizing” with anything.

“Is the input necessary, though?”

“No, but precisely because of that you should be thankful for it.” He turns a page. “It is glaringly obvious that you need it. And I benefit from it, of course: I refuse to live in a pigpen.”

“You won’t live in a ‘pigpen’ if you just live me the bloody hell alone!” he yells, dropping the broom on the floor.

They both cringe at the loud clank it made when it hit the floor.

“Well, if you _insist_ ,” says Spy, closing his book. He stands up and looks at him in the eye for the first time in the morning. “Goodbye. Keep being a disaster alone.”

“I’m not—You’re—Ugh!” He’s so worked up that words fail him. _How does he_ dare _?!_ , he thinks as he watches Spy retreat to the elevator and disappear behind its door. Pompous arse.

“Oi, Snipes! Delivery incoming!”

He looks at the clock on the wall and sighs. It’s, indeed, mail time.

“Your face’s longer than usual,” Jeremy points out.

“Oh, bugger off.”

“What happened?”

He sighs again. “The spook…”

Jeremy makes a face. “Ugh. I get it. Best way to ruin your morning.” He perks up. “Well, I’m here to make it better!”

Mick doubts it, but he appreciates the thought nevertheless.

“Today we’ve got, hm… Ah!” Jeremy extracts from his bag a sealed envelope and a letter. “These are for Engie!”

“Oh, really?” He recognizes the seal of Rosie’s college from other letters Dell’s received. “Heh, this is gonna make his day.”

“It sure is!” Jeremy says confidently. “And… let’s see… Oh.” His face falls and turns red. What…? He takes one letter with a blue lipstick kiss smeared on it. “For the penthouse,” he mumbles.

Mick takes it, sympathetically trying not to laugh. Jeremy’s face was comical, but he could understand why anything related to Spy would put you in a bad mood.

Wait. Is this…

“Is this from—”

“Don’t,” Jeremy says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please, don’t say anything.”

He gulps, remembering Jeremy’s words at the bar. His stomach churns at the thought of Jeremy’s mom—or anyone, really—pining after the arsehole.

He decides to spare Jeremy and puts the letter in his back pocket, away from sight.

“Anyways, thank you, mate. Any good news for Dell is good news for everyone.” He smiles.

Jeremy perks up. “Oh, yeah! I mean, we don’t really know what’s in there, right; but that kid only brings good news, so—”

“Yeah,” Mick says. It’s true; he doesn’t remember any of Rosie’s letters putting Dell in a bad mood.

“What’s that about good news, fellas?”

They turn around to see Dell walking out the building, bags under his eyes, yet with a smile in his face. He must’ve been working on another project of his.

“Oh, here’s the man!” says Jeremy. “Come on; give ‘em to him, Snipes!”

“Oh, right. Here they are, mate.”

“What…” When Dell’s eyes fall on the seal, his smile widens. “Well, slap my head and call me silly! Good news, indeed.”

“How’d ya know, pally?” Jeremy asks, receiving an elbow jab by Mick.

“All news from Rosie are good news,” Dell says, happy wrinkles in his eyes. “I think I’m gonna read these inside, anyway. Thanks, pardner.”

“No problem, Truckie.”

“Hey! I delivered it.”

“Of course; thanks, son.” Dell winks. “See y’all later—I’ll come to Tavish’s tonight with the news!”

“Sure, mate, we’ll be waiting!”

Dell heads upstairs—he always takes the stairs, to stretch his legs, he says—and Jeremy decides to head off.

“I still got a job to do, Snipes. See ya tonight!”

Mick doesn’t go to Tavish’s bar every night, but tonight it feels important. Dell’s letter had this strange feeling—not ominous, per se, but… It seemed to carry weight.

“Ugh.”

He jumps, and turns around. Spy’s there, lighting a cigarette.

“I can’t believe you get drunk on a daily basis. No, wait, that explains a lot.”

“What the bloody hell are ya doing here?!” he yells. Luckily, the streets are empty today.

“I told you this morning; I will not repeat myself.” He exhales a godawful _cloud_ of smoke. “I believe you’ve got something of mine.”

“I—” He remembers the letter. “Oh, hell. Take this.” He takes it from his back pocket; it wrinkled a bit, but it’s alright overall.

“Eugh,” Spy says. “Why did you put it there? Now it is ruined!”

“Whatever,” Mick says. “Get outta my sight, ya bloody menace.”

Spy directs him one last glare before retreating, finally, to the elevator.

Mick sighs. Bloody spook.

\-----

Mick has spread the word so that the whole gang knew to go to Tavish’s bar that night.

“Where’s little man?” asks Heavy, arms crossed, from his seat in front of Medic.

“I don’t know…” says Mick. He was the last one to leave the building, but Dell hadn’t come down yet. Pyro mumbles worriedly.

“Maybe he got cold feet?” suggests Jeremy.

“Negatory!” shouts Soldier. “Engie is one of the bravest men I know; he will not let us down!”

Suddenly, the door opens.

“Dell!” Tavish says. “C’mere, mate, lemme get you a beer.”

“I’m gonna need it pardner,” Dell tells him, deadpan. Mick can feel the temperature of the room drop. What happened?

“Is everything okay, Truckie?” Mick asks.

“How’s private Rose?” Soldier adds, ignoring everyone’s glares.

“She…” Dell says, and takes three long gulps of his beer. His cheeks are red, and his grin wide, when he announces: “She got her first PhD!”

The bar erupts in cheers. Mick manages to pat him hard in the back—“Ya bastard!”—before Soldier hugs him, lifting him up in the air. Dell laughs, and laughs, and lets himself and Rosie be cheered until long after the stars have set up in the sky.

In a few days, he’ll travel to take part in his daughter’s ceremony. But tonight, they drink together; this is the beginning of _their_ celebration. The rest of it will come when Rosie’s here, Dell says, and Mick wholeheartedly agrees.

\-----

Up in the penthouse, that night, Alain looks at the letter.

“Excusez moi, ma petite chou-fleur,” he says. “I can’t kiss you back tonight.” He makes a face of disgust.

He opens the letter and reads its contents, a fond smile drawing itself in his face.

_I miss you, my dear friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I managed to squeeze one update in between the whole bunch of translations I'm currently making. I love this job, and I'm trying my best to balance it with my drive to write these stories. I don't want to give neither of them up.  
> \-----  
> So, we know Spy's name now! I don't know how popular it's gonna be; it probably won't appear a lot anyways. I hope you like it!
> 
> Thank you very much for reading ♥


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